


The Chain

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Ragnarok, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: And if you don't love me now//You will never love me again//I can still hear you saying//You would never break the chain."I'm here," he says....and this can only end one way.





	The Chain

**Author's Note:**

> So, I went to see _Ragnarok_ , that That Particular Scene made me think WE'RE ALL GOING TO WRITE FOLLOW UP FIC TO _THAT_ , AREN'T WE, so...here's my take?
> 
> Lyrics, of course, from Fleetwood Mac's _[The Chain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDG2m5hN1vo)_ , because boy did the whole tone of that movie give me GotG feels, ha.
> 
> ETA: ...I just fucking realised that when I first posted this fic, I somehow _completely forgot_ about Thor's eye. What the fuck. ...it's fixed now, ha ha. [head in hands]

“I’m here.”

For a long moment, the words hang upon the air like a spell not yet come to true power. Then a slow smile crosses his brother’s features, slow sure strike of brilliant lightning. “Well,” he drawls, one eyebrow rising high, “then I suppose I’m expected to hug you after all?”

Loki does not make the first move. He can’t. He did too much by coming here at all. It doesn’t matter, because Thor strides towards him with three quick steps. The incredible _bulk_ of him ought to be daunting, terrifying at that speed. But now: it’s no threat, only blessed familiarity.

The strength of his arms around him is somehow more than that. It is _life_ , the memory of Thor as he knew him, but now alight with the true power of the god of thunder. The strength of his body is hardly tempered by the strength of his spirit – it is only made all the greater, and Loki fists his hands in the leather and metal, drags him closer still.

A sigh, half-muffled, rises; Thor’s face is unseen, pressed as it is into Loki’s hair. He turns his own head, the slight fuzz on Thor’s scalp dragging across his own smooth skin. It’s not quite the same rasp of his beard, and a few days has eased the worst of the ragged edges, but still: it is strange, and not a change entirely welcomed.

Without thinking Loki finds himself leaning back, swallowing hard, though the arms are still around him. The most sensible and cynical parts of his mind tell the truth as they see it: it is imperative he now break free of these bonds, that he turn tail and run. Those words in the elevator have not left him: _Perhaps it would be for the best, if we never saw each other again._

But looking before him now, there is only and ever Thor.

“I could restore it,” he says, too quick. “Your hair.”

There’s something endearing to the self-conscious tilt of his head, the jerk of a shoulder, as if he were going to raise a hand to it but had decided otherwise. “I…” Thor’s jaw works, a little, and his grip on Loki’s shoulders tightens just enough. “…I think I will leave it.”

“Really?”

Disbelief sparks bright denial. “I didn’t _want_ them to cut it off!” Already he ducks his head, looks up from beneath those long eyelashes even with the eyepatch covering half of them; there’s something almost bashful about it, and Loki almost chokes on the sudden memory of how he’d been as a small boy, already crowned in gold and imagined glory.

And Thor, too, for a moment, is far away. “I…well, I didn’t _cry_ , but…”

“You wept many manly tears.” He pats him on one shoulder, feigning easy pity even as his own heart tightens to a corkscrew tangle. “I know.”

That earns him an even fiercer hug than the one before. When he pulls back, Loki follows, swaying forward; he checks himself even as Thor catches him by the upper arm, entirely without thinking. “I miss your shorter hair,” Thor says, sudden, single eye very intense on Loki’s own; he can feel his skin heating, ridiculous and strange. He should be reminded of Odin. And yet, he sees only his brother.

“You do?” It’s idiotic to say it, and still he does anyway. “Should I cut it?”

His eyes narrow, thoughtful and almost sad. “…no.” And he drops his arms, takes a step back. “It’s different, now.”

Loki yearns for nothing so much as to cross the short, widening distance between them. Instead, he folds his arms over his chest, tilts his chin upwards. “Not _that_ different,” he says, and nods at the little cabin Thor has commandeered for himself. “I mean, here we are again. Bruised and battered, perhaps, but still at the better end of the adventure.”

 His eye rolls temporarily high, and he gives a little grimace as he cracks his neck. “Some of us more so than others.”

“What, you?” he scoffs, and so easily he falls back to the easy bantering tone of years long since passed. “If I recall correctly, I was the one who _you_ threw halfway across the room.”

“Yes, but Hulk pounded me into the arena floor before that,” he returns smartly, and Loki goes for wide-eyed incredulity, as fake as the gold-gilded baubles of the Grandmaster.

“I thought you won that battle.”

“I did!” Thor shoots back, hot-headedly simple as he’d been in toddlerhood. “He just…got the last word.”

Something in the slouch of his shoulders suggests he’s close to a sulk; amusing as it would be to goad him further into it, Loki chases a different instinct. “Did he really hurt you?”

“Oh, you’d like that, would you?”

“Well.” He could lie, but it’s one of those rare situations where it wouldn’t be quite as fun as the truth. “I must admit to some…pleasure, at the thought of you understanding what it was like, to be flung about like a child’s toy in a tantrum.”

A wince, and he glances away. “Ah. Yes.”

Much as there are a good dozen messy things Loki would greatly appreciate the chance to rub his brother’s nose in, he lets it go for now. “So you didn’t enjoy it?” he asks, too light; Thor’s returned expression is perfectly, potently sour.

“I wouldn’t mark it down as one of my favourite experiences of the last week, no.”

“But you always were a fast healer.”

“Only because you were there.” His eye opens wide, and he very nearly slaps his own hand over his mouth. “I mean…”

Raising an eyebrow, Loki doesn’t bother to mask his own surprise. “I’ve never had any particular skill in healing.”

“No, but…” He’s unhappy, now, whole body sagging. “…just having you nearby.” The regret in his eye as he confesses this strikes Loki deeper than any physical blow. “It always helped.”

He should look away. He should walk away. But Loki only swallows, says quietly, “Are you well, now, or shall I have a look?”

It’s Thor who comes back to him here. And he’s too close. Everything about his presence now is strange, electric; Loki remembers again the arena, the taste of galvanised air, the thrum of electric burn through skin and bone. The shock of it had been something new. He’s always known Thor’s power – they’d been so close as children, that sometimes it almost felt to be just the other side of his own. But in that moment it had transformed: become something dizzying, dangerous, pure unfiltered elemental energy. Loki himself had been all but drunk on it, without a single taste having passed his lips.

It’s a terrible thought to have, in this moment; when Loki focuses again, it is to find Thor has stripped off his armour, leaving chest and shoulders and abdomen bare. Thor’s own furrowed brow belies his confusion, even before he speaks.

“Something wrong, brother?”

Thor hadn’t used the term for so long, after Loki’s imprisonment. It’s a fierce weapon to wield against him now. “Are we the only ones left, do you think?” he asks, abrupt; Thor goes very still.

“What?”

“Or do you think Father has secreted other ill-favoured children about the place, hoping we wouldn’t trip over them later?” This sudden bitterness has come unbidden, and seems impossible to damn up again. “No wonder he was so willing to banish you, to exile me to the palace dungeons. He’d done it before, it’s hardly so strange he’d do it again.”

“ _Loki_.” He’s closer still, and his scent – ozone and the sky after rain – is too much. But his lone remaining eye is even more: so very, terribly, blue. Again, Loki thinks he should be reminded of Odin. But this is not the old god-king before him now: trickster, conqueror, seidmadr, and warrior all. This is the Lord of Thunder, king of new Ásgarðr.

“Don’t think about that now,” he says, soft brontide – and a shiver passes through him, as if some dark spirit has passed again over one of his many graves.

“But we never talk about what matters.” He can’t look up, can’t meet those eyes; his shame is too great. “Isn’t this how this all happened?”

And Thor is the one to sigh. “Perhaps it was meant to happen.”

“Oh, you’re a fatalist, now?” he snaps, looking up without thinking, and it’s too late.

“In all honesty, Loki, you were probably always more the fatalist of the two of us.” Pursing his generous lips, for just a moment, he lets something turn over in his mind, unreadable and distant. Then, he tries again. “Things happen. And things change.” He’s trying to be gentle, so broad and bright with his one burning eye, but it’s a blow that cannot be pulled. “This is how it is, now. And we can live with that.”

There are few things Loki has ever wanted to believe as much as this. “Can we? I mean, really?”

“If we try.”

“…you’re really pushing this Hero bit, aren’t you.”

His smile, wide and close-lipped, is perfect, the enduring eye crinkling up at its corner. Loki’s breath, catches, won’t come again; even without the flowing golden hair, Thor remains effortlessly beautiful.

_My brother_. And the thought tangles around his heart, pulls tight, and he can do nothing but stare.

“Well? Aren’t you going to check me out?”

“I – _what_?”

His expression turns curious. “My injuries.” With arms opened wide, he juts his chest out a little further, and actually pouts. “You offered, didn’t you?”

Haughtiness is a mask both quick and convenient. “I changed my mind.”

“Well, I’m changing it back.” Both great hands move outward, catch one of Loki’s own about the wrist, and pull forward. Barely has Loki’s palm made contact with that lovely golden skin before Thor yelps with a perfect dearth of dignity, jumping backward; he then gives him a wide-eyed and injured glare.

“ _Loki_!”

He glances down, then up. “What did I do?”

“Your hands are _freezing_!”

It’s hardly the first time he’s wanted to punt his brother off a spaceship, though there are no convenient airlocks nearby. “Well, I _am_ a frost giant.”

And he’s said so easily enough. Still, Thor’s expression turns wary. “We’ve never…talked about that.”

Tiredness takes him like a king tide, sudden and high and drowning. “And I’m not in the mood to now, either.” Allowing no reply, he folds his arms over his chest, gives his brother an entirely critical once-over. “And you look perfectly healthy. You just wanted to take your shirt off, didn’t you?”

He shrugs, make no motion to put said shirt back on. “I blame Mother. She always let me run around naked as a little boy.”

“And what a little boy you were,” Loki retorts, and Thor’s smile is the clear herald of even deeper trouble.

“Oh, but I got _bigger_.”

There’s a flare of something, rising in both his eye and his voice: familiar as it is, Loki tamps down on his own echoing response. “You did.”

“And you always said I was such a showoff.”

“You are.”

The size of this grin is too big even for his swollen head. “Hardly.” He leans down, takes a hold of one boot. “I’m not showing off nearly enough.”

When the boots are gone, the belt too, Thor hitches his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers. Predictably, there’s nothing beneath; Loki can see as much, as he begins to push them down low on his waist. But here he pauses, all easy humour evaporated like summer rain.

“…Is this what you want?”

“I…” Even without words, his answer comes clear and true. That damned smile is back, again, and Thor’s amusement cannot be hidden.

“Loki.” It’s so teasing, living memory of days long past. “Were you pleasuring yourself to me in the arena?”

Scandalised, his answer is too prim, too proper. “It was public!”

“As if you don’t know how to remain unseen when you want to be.” Now the trousers are down, and he stalks across what little space remains between them. Pressed against him, Thor is so beautiful, all bare skin and rippling muscle, and his hot mouth low by his ear. “But I see you,” he says, and his joy is like the calm eye of the wildest storm. “I _always_ see you.”

Those arms are a crushing weight about his ribcage. Loki must bite down again on the memory of chains, of walking the throne room, to the seated king at its head. He’s pushing back a moment later, and Thor lets go without protest, broad features suddenly serious.

“What’s wrong?”

He raises his chin, sets his jaw. “On the bed.” It’s an order, not an offer. “On your back.”

Immediately Thor smirks, but the warning flash in Loki’s eyes has him moving. It’s still indolent and slow, and when he’s settled one hand closes tight about the already risen cock.

“Stop that,” Loki scolds. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

“No.” Of course he’s still grinning. “But I’m older than you.” The hand rises, slides back down in teasing slow stroke. “If you want me to do something, come on over here and make me.”

A snort, and Loki moves forward. His hands close about Thor’s calves, dragging him down with thighs spread until his ass almost at the edge of the mattress. With his head tilted up for a better view, Thor spares an even wider smirk. Ignoring him instead, Loki shoves knees towards chest, bends him almost in half; ignoring the great cock, he goes for his asshole instead.

This has always been a treat to Thor, and one Loki teases and taunts with, for all it is a favourite of his own. But even as he works, tongue darting, fingers dripping with spelled slick, he must work to make sure the great fool does not crush him between his thighs.

Only when he’s panting with clear desperation does Loki lower him down, again. “Are you more amenable to instruction now, brother?” he asks, perfectly sweet, ripe as the golden flesh of Idunn’s shining apples. Thor’s mouth, just a moment earlier opened about low moan, twists as he cranes his head upward. Sweat beads across his forehead, dampening the shaved patterns at his temples; his face is flushed red beneath the patch, lips bitten to deeper bloody shade.

“Just _fuck_ me, you little shit.”

When he laughs now, Loki wonders if he will ever stop again. But he does, soon enough; he must, if he wishes to strip himself as bare as Thor sprawled before him. Still, his ribs ache and his abdomen complains of the pressure; Loki does not think he has laughed so long or so loud, not since the days when they were children.

He can’t help but smirk as he recalls one particular occasion involving Thor, mead, and a strangely affectionate donkey, but he keeps that to himself; no doubt Thor remembers just as well the incident of Loki and the goat. Instead he turns back to his brother with easy flourish, stands naked with one hand lowering to his cock.

“Pretty show, little brother.” Thor’s doing his precious best to sound bored, but there’s a twitch to his own cock and a faint whine in his voice that betrays him all too well. “Are you just going to stand about like a cheap gold-plated statue all day, or…?”

He’s been hard since he first started opening Thor up on his fingers, but Loki makes a show of it now: slow hand over his cock, stretching, stroking, sweetening the edge of rising pleasure. “I could just come all over your pretty little face, you know.”

A snarl, and Loki would be laughing again if not for the wind being knocked from his middle; Thor has struck forward, and fast. With arms around his brother, he brings him down with him, rolls them both over. There, Thor straddles him; his thighs are all bunched wide muscle, delicious in their strain. The urge to lean up, to trace his tongue along one long divot and then bite down hard at where his groin begins, comes strong and hard.

It’s also too late; his own handiwork betrays him, because when Thor leans back, Loki’s cockhead slips deliciously between his cheeks, and so easily finds the loosened hole he’d prepared earlier. Pushing back, Thor slides down, taking him deep on the very first stroke. Closing his eyes, there he pauses. His collarbones are stark against golden skin, chest rising and falling in swift staccato.

And Loki’s chuckling again, head light and his entire body thrumming with electric joy. “Too much for you, am I?”

Thor looks down his nose with wordless scorn, imperious king upon a golden throne. In return, Loki gives a mighty jerk of hips, almost unseating him. Naturally Thor takes it all in stride, staying exactly where he wants to be even as he leans down and then forward; when he speaks, his voice is low thunder against his lips, more sensation than actual sound.

“I’m the only one who would ever put up with you for this long.”

Loki raises one hand, gentles the back of his fingers over the rough ruin of Thor’s hair. The fondness can’t be helped, and he finds he can’t really care. “But only because I’m the only one who will ever do the same for you.”

Though Thor snorts, he hasn’t much time to dwell on refuting the point; there will be time enough for that later. And that’s the truth that moves Loki the most. They are here, and this is now, and as Thor shifts on his cock, clenching and circling, _now_ is indeed a marvellous thing.

But as Loki draws him closer, bracing his feet and pinning their chests close together, there’s a greater fact he cannot ignore, does not want to forget. His forearms parallel Thor’s spine, his fingers dig into broad shoulders, and Loki knows that there _will_ be a later. This is only the first moment of a greater future.

And that’s enough to have him coming first, teeth clenched in Thor’s shoulder to the point where he can taste blood and ozone, salty and fresh upon his tongue. He cannot speak, the silver-tongue rusted and still, though he coaxes Thor through his own release with long soft movements of knuckles and fingertips over the smooth skin of his back, stroking and teasing – and, at the end, a sharp little pinch that has him roaring, rearing, looking down at him with brotherly disdain even as his cock paints Loki’s chest in white.

They fall back to embrace, soon enough. Loki’s cock has slipped free of Thor’s ass, but it doesn’t feel to matter overly much; even with the come drying and leaking between them, Loki feels no great urgency of movement.

It’s Thor who speaks first, words muffled where his face is buried in the sweat-damp mess of Loki’s longer hair. “That was a nice hug.”

He scoffs, but is too languid to make much effort of it. “Better than ones that end in stabbings, I suppose.”

Raising his head, Thor seems thoughtful, even as one hand moves back behind himself. The wide brow creases a little with effort, and Loki’s on the verge of inquiring about it when his hand returns, fingers slick. “Well, some stabbings are better than others,” he offers with lazy glee, and licks his tongue along the two longest digits.

His revulsion is unfeigned, and also entirely fascinated. “Thor, you are disgusting.”

“And _you_ are a prick,” he returns with easy triumph, before dropping back down on his chest. “But I rather like pricks, so that’s all fine, then.”

It’s a long moment before Loki has breath enough to speak again; the lump that is his brother is somehow impossibly heavier than even his damned hammer. “You’re also an idiot.”

The grin upon his face is brighter than any sun Loki has ever known. “And where would I be without you to remind me?”

There’s a brief scuffle, after that; Thor is winning when Loki uses an unsporting knee. When Thor lies beneath him with a damp eye and a fiercer scowl, Loki plops himself down on that same newly sensitive spot and raises an eyebrow. “We should get up. Get clean.” He can’t help the devious curve of his lips, now. “See how many people we horrified, I think the walls are rather thin in here.”

Thor wriggles, but Loki is happy enough where he currently reigns. “Probably only Banner.” And sudden fresh distaste crosses his features, blackened in sudden storm of memory. “Actually, I should tell you about _his_ prick. The image is burned into my mind, I should really share—”

“No. No, you _don’t_.” Then Loki pauses, his immediate reflexive answer taken over by the catch-up of logical thought. “How did you even see it? Oh, never mind, I don’t care—”

“Oh, you _do_.” Again, Thor rises to the challenge; Loki goes down with a squawk as Thor lays his body over his own, propped up on both elbows. “But no need to be jealous, brother mine,” he says, almost sing-song, reaching down between them. “It might not be the thickness of a Jötunn’s sword arm, but _your_ little cock suits me just fine.”

One sharp slap, and Thor’s hand is smartly removed. “Ass,” he says, rude enough; Thor just grins wider.

“Yes, exactly.”

Rolling his eyes, Loki chooses not to bother. He can already see sleep catching up with his brother, and not just due to bedsport; he doubts Thor has slept much at all since his battle with Surtr. As if plucking the thought from Loki’s mind, Thor gives a little grunt of ascent, shifting his weight as if settling in for sleep.

It had been the same, when they’d been children, still sharing their nursery-bed. Thor had always been the lump atop him. There’s another memory, in that – the weight of metal rasping against the floor, heavy around throat and wrist and ankle and chest.

He just closes his eyes. This is different. This is a weight he’s willing to bear forever.

“You don’t need Mjölnir to fly, brother mine,” he says, sudden, without thought. And Thor gives a sleepy little chuckle, fingers pulling where they twist in his hair.

“No,” he says, and sighs with clear, childish contentment. “I have you.”

“We have each other,” Loki corrects, and it is no lie. In the end, the chain matters not so much as those it keeps bound together.


End file.
